


Teach Me a Lesson

by silentdescant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Professor Peter Hale, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking, Teacher/Student Roleplay, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 12:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: “Clearly, you need some kind of punishment so this lesson will sink in,” Peter says thoughtfully. “Hmm, what to do… I could have you write lines. Would you write lines for me, Stiles?” Peter drags his fingertips slowly down Stiles’s arm, delighting in his shiver of excitement. “I just don’t think you’ll learn your lesson from writing lines.”





	Teach Me a Lesson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpankedbySpike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpankedbySpike/gifts).



> Happy Steter Secret Santa! This fic is a gift for @spankedbyspike on tumblr, and it was a lot of fun to write.

The house is quiet when Peter gets home from his class. It’s only unusual because Stiles’s car is parked in the driveway, and he’s hardly ever quiet when he’s home. Peter calls out, “Honey, I’m home!” in the cheesiest old sitcom voice he can manage.

From the kitchen, Stiles replies, “How was your day? Murder anyone?”

“Just the ones who didn’t study,” Peter says. He finds Stiles at the table with some of Peter’s mythology books stacked beside him and several pages of notebook paper scattered in easy reach. Peter looks at it curiously, but he doesn’t ask. Not yet. Things feel… different, tonight.

Stiles tilts his head up for a kiss, which Peter grants him. “I didn’t study,” he says primly.

Peter narrows his gaze and looks pointedly at the scribbled research on the table. “You’re studying right now. Besides, your dad made me promise not to murder you when he let you move in with me.”

He continues through the kitchen to the bedroom, where he has his own desk. Stiles pops to his feet and trails behind him, slightly too close for comfort. Peter stops short at the doorway and as expected, Stiles knocks right into his back. Huffing his amusement, Peter digs into his bag for the stack of today’s essays. He slaps them down on the desk and takes a moment to straighten the corners of the pages.

Stiles is watching him closely, hovering, and Peter doesn’t quite understand why, but he knows how Stiles’s mind works. Some of the pieces are falling into place.

“What are you working on out there with my books?” he asks. Then, on a hunch, he adds, “I didn’t see you in my class today.”

Amusement sparkles in Stiles’s warm eyes, but before he has time to come up with a reasonable lie, Peter asks, “Did you finish the assignment?”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles replies.

Peter picks up the stack of papers and thumbs through them quickly, looking for an essay he knows isn’t there. “I don’t see it. Are you sure you turned it in?”

“I’m sure, I handed it right to you,” Stiles says. His cheeks are splotched pink and he bites his lip hard. He always has trouble shutting up when he’s lying. It’s his most obvious tell.

“Hmm. What was the assignment?”

Stiles stretches up a little taller to try to read the cover sheet of the first essay in the stack, but Peter quickly twists his wrist to hide the page from view. He watches Stiles squirm for a few seconds; he can practically see Stiles shuffling through memories of Peter’s syllabus, of their pillow talk, of his rants about lazy students. It’s equally clear that he has no idea what the essay topic is.

“The history of Native American Skinwalkers,” Stiles finally says with completely unearned confidence.

Peter’s tempted to give it to him, just so he can put Stiles on the spot and quiz him about different werewolf legends, but he thinks back to the kitchen, where Stiles had said “I didn’t study,” with such matter-of-fact eagerness, and decides that praise isn’t what Stiles wants from this evening.

So he clucks his tongue with exaggerated disappointment and says, “Were you even paying attention to my lecture, Mr. Stilinski?”

The pink staining Stiles’s cheeks darkens to an embarrassed red. He presses his lips together tightly and looks down at his feet. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles.

“I think you’re lying to me,” Peter says. “You realize that makes me even less likely to give you an extension on your essay?”

“I’m sorry, professor.”

“Sorry? For what, for lying just now? Or for not showing up to class and not turning in assignments?”

“The assignments,” Stiles answers. “I’m sorry, I should’ve paid attention and I should’ve asked you for an extension earlier.”

“You don’t give a shit about lying, is that it?”

The smirk that lights up Stiles’s face makes him look more like himself and less like this caricature of a student he’s playing, but it doesn’t last long. Stiles schools his features into contrition again by the time he meets Peter’s gaze.

“ _Clearly_ , you need some kind of punishment so this lesson will sink in,” Peter says thoughtfully. “Hmm, what to do… I could have you write lines. Would you write lines for me, Stiles?” Peter drags his fingertips slowly down Stiles’s arm, delighting in his shiver of excitement. “I just don’t think you’ll learn your lesson from writing lines.”

Peter shoves the neat stack of essays to the floor, sending the stapled pages fluttering, and moves his chair out of the way.

“Something more physical for you, Mr. Stilinski. Elbows on the desk.”

Stiles’s breathing quickens and his cheeks and throat are fully red now, but there’s no hesitation in his movements. He bends over the desk and even arches his back, displaying his ass perfectly. Peter pets him appreciatively, stroking his hand down the long curve of his spine and patting the top of his ass.

“I wish I had a paddle, just to complete the image,” he murmurs. “I bet you’d like the feel of it.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles whispers.

Might as well fully commit to this little scenario. He’s never had Stiles as a student, and doesn’t really want him as a disruption and distraction in his classroom, but the idea of it, the fantasy… Yes, he can work with the fantasy. Peter licks his lips and bends down to speak into Stiles’s ear. “Professor.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good boy.”

It takes no time at all to reach around to the fly of Stiles’s khaki pants to loosen them. They sag open and fall a few inches, enough to reveal a pair of tight briefs Stiles hardly ever wears. He dressed specifically for this scene, then. Peter almost wants to leave the underwear on, because he so loves how it hugs every curve of Stiles’s body, but the desire to get his hands on Stiles’s pale skin is stronger. He wants to see the flush and the marks, wants to feel the heat of them in his palm. He’s glad, now, that they don’t own a paddle.

He lets the pants fall to the floor and gives himself a moment just to look at the dark blue fabric covering Stiles’s ass. It looks so stark against his skin, and the waistband digs in at his hips, too tight to be comfortable for everyday wear. He loves how snug they are, and Stiles knows that. Peter tucks his finger into the waistband and pulls it up a few inches, then lets the elastic snap back.

Stiles hisses sharply.

“Did you wear these for me, Mr. Stilinski?” he asks.

“Do you like them?” Stiles asks, tossing a cheerful grin over his shoulder.

Peter slaps his thigh in retaliation. “Answer the question.”

“I wore them for you, Professor.”

“I do like them. But they’ll look better on the floor.”

Before Stiles can move his arms to do it himself, Peter stretches the waistband out and drags them down Stiles’s thighs. At his knees, they’re loose enough to drop to the floor with his pants, and Stiles steps out of everything and quickly kicks the pile under the desk, out of the way.

Peter strokes Stiles’s smooth, pale skin with both hands, squeezing and kneading to bring up some color. He gathers Stiles’s t-shirt up, bunching the fabric at the dip above his ass, and just hopes it stays there. He may need to push Stiles down flat against the desk if it becomes a problem, if Stiles can’t hold still.

“I wanted a paddle, but you know what? I’d much rather touch you,” Peter tells him conversationally. “I’m going to beat your ass red and I want to feel every moment of it.”

“Ohhh, fuck, yeah,” Stiles sighs. His head drops down between his arms and thuds on the desk.

“Head up, sweetheart, you don’t get to hide from me yet. Where’s the stoic schoolboy act, huh? Or do you not care anymore, now that you have what you want?”

Stiles straightens up immediately, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. He adjusts his arms on the desk, making his forearms parallel and flattening his hands, fingers spread wide. It’s like he’s adhering to an image of perfect spanking posture in his head, and Peter has no idea where that image came from. They’ve never been formal about spanking before. Peter wonders if maybe Stiles would like to be.

“I care, sir. Professor. Sorry I’m such a troublemaker.”

“Brat, more like,” Peter mutters. “Stop lying to me, Mr. Stilinski. I know you’re not sorry about your attitude. But you will be.”

Peter gives him a strong smack that turns his reply into a hiss. Peter’s had Stiles over his knee once before, and he’d taken his time then, warming him up slowly and laying deeper bruises into his skin, pink and red marks that still radiated warmth the following day. The other times he’s spanked Stiles, it’s been in the heat of the moment. A few slaps while they fuck, or as a tease before they’re even undressed.

It’s been good every time, and Stiles’s pale skin colors beautifully whether Peter’s using his hand or his lips and teeth, but Peter likes how deliberate this roleplay is tonight. Stiles chose his outfit and laid out specific books and papers, and he arranged the tableau in time for Peter to walk in the door and see him. Peter’s enjoying the formality of the scene too, especially since Stiles usually isn’t one for rules. He bristles in the face of authority, and it makes his obedience now even more thrilling.

Stiles pushes his ass back into Peter’s hand, wordlessly asking for more.

Peter obliges him; he draws back his hand and pauses for just a few seconds, just long enough to hear Stiles’s heartbeat stutter and speed up with anticipation, then brings it down sharply.

“Nnngh, fuck,” Stiles breathes.

“What did you say, Stilinski?” Peter asks. He doesn’t care if it doesn’t fit the character. Stiles never shuts up and Peter wants to hear his boy’s voice. He leans down and licks at the shell of Stiles’s ear. “I want to hear you.”

“ _Fuck_ , Professor.”

“Good boy.” He takes a few breaths. “I’m not going to give you a number, Mr. Stilinski. I’m not going to try and predict how well you’ll take this punishment. I’m just going to keep going until I want to stop. Until I think you’ve learned your lesson. Do you understand?”

Stiles squirms a little, pressing his thighs together briefly and then deliberately spreading his legs again, wider than shoulder width apart. Peter can’t help but touch him. He drags his hand down and curls his palm to reach between Stiles’s legs, petting his perineum with two fingers. He positions his thumb at Stiles’s hole and rubs gently.

“Then I’m going to fuck you over my desk and you’re going to come, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Very good, Stiles. See, I know you can be good for me. When you want to be.”

Peter doesn’t waste any more time. He changes position, moving to the side to give himself some room, and gathers up Stiles’s shirt in his left hand. That will keep it out of the way and give Peter something to dig his nails into without clawing at Stiles’s back.

He begins slowly, like he had with Stiles over his knee, and moves his hand around to give Stiles’s ass an even spread of color. Peter loves seeing it bloom from white to pink, and then to a brighter, vibrant red as he picks up the pace.

Peter knows Stiles’s pain tolerance is pretty high. The last time they did this, he made sure to mete it out in manageable doses, alternating spanking with more tender caresses, teasing out the anticipation before they fucked. This time, though, Stiles is setting the tone, and Peter trusts him to know what he can handle. So he doesn’t stop.

His hand drifts lower, down to Stiles’s thighs. It’s going to be uncomfortable as hell for him to sit down, and Peter wants desperately to see him wince and shift his weight and perch on the edge of a chair tomorrow. He pauses to knead Stiles’s ass, reveling in the heat radiating from him.

“Fuck, Pe—Professor…”

Peter kisses the upper curve of his ass. “Yes?”

“Fuck me, please, please, fuck me.”

“I don’t think I’m quite finished yet.”

“Please, fuck, I want you in me, I want to feel you in me, Pete— _Professor_ , please.”

“You know I could break you, Stiles.” Peter drags his nails across Stiles’s ass from one side to the other, lighter than Peter usually scratches him with his blunt human nails, but hard enough to leave thin welts on Stiles’s already-abused skin.

It reduces Stiles to frantic, desperate cries and he claws at the desk, his entire body shuddering. Peter makes out a garbled mess of “fuck” and “yes” and “please” and decides to take pity on him.

Well, after dropping to his knees behind Stiles and licking along the crease of his thigh. Stiles is so hot against his tongue, burning up, and the normally ticklish spot makes him shiver and moan. It’s fascinating. Peter pulls his cheeks apart and flicks his tongue across Stiles’s hole for a few seconds, just to satisfy his own need to devour the taste of his boy.

He stands up again, slightly breathless and a little more disheveled than he expected to be, and snaps, “Chest on the desk, hands behind your back. Legs spread. You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, please.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Professor, please fuck me,” Stiles whispers.

Peter steps away from the desk and watches as Stiles lowers his torso to the desk and spreads his legs wide to compensate, then folds both arms across his lower back, hands clenched into fists. It’s a stunning tableau, and Peter’s cock is aching in his slacks. He gives himself a moment to look, and Stiles waits patiently, blinking at him and panting with his cheek pressed to the wood.

Peter grabs the lube from the nightstand and opens the fly of his pants before returning to Stiles, so Stiles can see him take out his cock and squeeze the base. Stiles is staring at him, intensely focused as he licks his lips in anticipation, like Peter’s dick is a project he can’t wait to start working on.

“Stay still,” Peter tells him sharply, because Stiles really does look like he’s about to slide off the desk and drop to his knees instead, and he doesn’t want Stiles’s mouth tonight. He wants to feel the marks he’s left, and he wants to hear Stiles’s pained moans.

He approaches slowly, moving behind Stiles and out of his view at the last moment, and takes his time stroking himself to full hardness. He can feel how tense Stiles is and they’re not even touching; the anticipation is tangible, so heavy in the air that Peter can taste it. From Stiles’s rapid breaths, he thinks maybe Stiles can taste it too.

Peter crouches down to get a better look at Stiles’s ass and coats his fingers liberally with lube before touching him. He slides one finger in and it’s tight, but Stiles relaxes his muscles quickly. 

This is one thing Stiles didn't prepare in advance, and Peter's glad of it. Stiles knows how much Peter loves this part, loves taking his time exploring and stretching and teasing. He draws it out, pulling his fingers from Stiles's hole to knead his ass or scrape his nails across the red marks. He lays in a few more slaps, too, bringing brighter color to the outer curve of his cheeks, and down to his thighs. He even pinches him on the tender skin of his inner thighs just to vary the sensation and draw a few sharp cries from Stiles.

Finally, Peter decides he's teased Stiles—and himself—enough and gives his own neglected cock more attention. He slathers lube onto himself, smearing the excess in Stiles's crease, and sinks into him slowly.

“Fuck, Peter, fuck me, fuck me,” Stiles babbles, tension arcing through his back as Peter settles in deep. One hand slaps down on the desk and Peter quickly grabs him by the wrist and brings it back around, twists his arm higher up behind him until he gasps with pain.

“What was that, Mr. Stilinski?” Peter asks, breathless himself. Stiles feels like heaven around him, incredible warmth inside and out.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Professor. Please, fuck me, Professor,” Stiles cries.

Peter loosens his grip on Stiles's arm and grinds into him, rubbing his hips and his thighs against Stiles’s ass and pushing hard as he bottoms out, driving Stiles into the sharp edge of the desk. He readjusts and grasps both wrists in one hand, using the other for leverage against Stiles's shoulder, both holding him down and pulling his body to meet Peter's slow thrusts.

Eventually Peter's hand slips down, though, so he can brace himself against the desk and lean low over Stiles's back to lick up the glistening sweat on the back of his neck. He wishes now that he'd removed Stiles's shirt so he could kiss and bite him, leave his marks on the rest of Stiles's body.

“I could do this all day,” Peter says, and it's not even close to true, he feels like he's hanging on by a thread, but his voice is steady enough to pull it off. “Have you learned your lesson yet?”

Stiles moans wordlessly, wiggling his ass in a way that makes it unclear whether he's trying to squirm away from the pain or if he wants more. Peter straightens up and smacks his ass again.

“Yes, fuck!”

“One more,” Peter says, timing the slap with a brutal thrust before picking up the pace and fucking him in earnest. Stiles's wrists are twisting restlessly in Peter's hand and he's bucking now, fucking himself back on Peter's cock, babbling meaningless apologies and incoherent pleas.

Peter barely even notices the tension leaving him; it’s only after Stiles falls quiet that he sees Stiles's hands curled loosely as his fingers relax, and Peter redoubles his efforts, chasing his own orgasm mindlessly once it finally sinks in that Stiles has already come without even being touched.

Peter drops the act and bends down to speak into Stiles's ear, all the praise he couldn't say before, all the thoughts he'd held in for the sake of the game, and bites down on Stiles's shoulder when he comes, tasting fabric and sweat and his own saliva and unfortunately not enough of Stiles.

He stays buried inside Stiles for as long as he can stand it, and then holds his hand against Stiles's hole when he pulls out, to feel the muscle fluttering and the slick come sliding out of him.

He lets go of Stiles's wrists and pulls aside the neckline of Stiles's shirt to kiss and suck and bite the way he couldn't before, satisfying himself with the contented looseness of Stiles's body.

“Thanks,” Stiles whispers after a while of holding still and tolerating Peter mauling his neck. He shifts his hips enough to make it clear he wants to stand up, or maybe move to the bed, and Peter straightens up and guides him with steadying hands on his waist.

Stiles strips off his t-shirt and tumbles into bed on his stomach, head turned sharply to the side so he can watch Peter undress.

“I'm serious. Thank you for going with it. I'm not good at talking about this kind of stuff.”

“No,” Peter agrees. They've stumbled upon most of their kinks through trial and error, and thankfully they've had more good experiences than bad. “For as much as you love to talk, you don't really say what you want.”

“That's why I'm with you,” Stiles replies. “You can always figure me out.”

Peter, naked at last, crawls onto the bed from the bottom and nuzzles Stiles's flaming red ass.

“Ow, fuck,” Stiles gasps. “Your stubble.”

“I know,” Peter says, and does it again. As expected, Stiles finches and gasps and then immediately pushes his ass back for more. “I can see how much you like it.”

Stiles pillows his head on his arms. “Did you like it too?”

“The spanking or the roleplay?”

“Both. Either.”

“I did,” Peter answers. “I wouldn't mind exploring it again. Or new scenarios, if you'd like. I've got to admit, playing an angry professor wasn't much of a stretch for me.”

“What do you want to be next? A Victorian lord? I’ll be your disobedient stable hand.”

“You could be a cop and arrest me for speeding,” Peter says. “You’ve already got the uniform.”

“I could pull you over for real,” Stiles says. “We could fuck by the side of the road. Of course, then I’d have to arrest us both for public indecency.”

Peter grins and crawls up the bed to kiss Stiles’s smirk off his face. He leaves Stiles with a stinging bite and says, “I’m sure we’d get off.”

Stiles shoves him off the bed. “Get me some lotion, since you’re up,” he mutters. “You gotta take care of me now that I can’t fuckin’ move.”

“You asked for it.”

Peter rolls to his knees, gathering his students’ papers while he’s on the floor, and drops the messy stack on the desk. He can’t believe they’ve never fucked over the desk before tonight. The memories will provide a welcome distraction from grading awful papers.

Once he retrieves the aloe gel from the medicine cabinet and an ice pack and a glass of water from the kitchen, Peter returns to the bedroom to find Stiles already dozing. Peter pets a few strands of sweaty hair from his forehead, and after a few seconds Stiles blinks back to awareness. He smiles up at Peter, and Peter feels a soft smile on his own face, a perfect mirror.

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” he asks. “I brought ice, if you want to numb it.”

“Nah,” Stiles replies. “I want it to hurt for a while. I’m just tired. You hungry? I guess I distracted you before we could have dinner.”

“We’ll eat in a bit,” Peter says as he puts everything on the nightstand. He spreads some of the lotion on his fingers and smooths it into Stiles’s reddened skin, listening for the gusty exhales of relief. When he’s done, he stretches out next to Stiles and tugs a pillow into place, wedging it under Stiles’s head as well as his own, and then they’re close enough to share breath and sleepy kisses.

“Want you to touch me,” Stiles whispers.

Peter reaches over and gently palms Stiles’s ass for a moment, both of them still tacky with aloe, before moving his hand up to Stiles’s back. He strokes his fingertips up the knobby points of his spine, down into the curve of his lower back, and up again, easing Stiles into a well-earned nap. Once Stiles is asleep, Peter leans in and drops a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Well done, sweetheart. I think you deserve an A-plus.”

 

 _fin_.


End file.
